


The Morning After

by sidebyside_archivist



Series: Fair Seducer and The Morning After [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 06:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19762549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidebyside_archivist/pseuds/sidebyside_archivist
Summary: This is a sequel to the story "Fair Seducer" from SBS#6. Spock is having severe difficulties adjusting to a sexual relationship with Kirk.





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Note from LadyKardasi and Sahviere, the archivists: this story was originally archived at [Side by Side](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Side_by_Side_\(Star_Trek:_TOS_zine\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. We tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Side by Side’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sidebyside/profile).
> 
> Author's Note: This piece is a bit of unfinished business. I was never happy with "Fair Seducer" (SBS #6) and began to write this followup story not long after it appeared. It has taken me something over a year to finally finish it. My Spock is too human, and a bit too Roman Catholic in this story, I know, but I couldn't have that other story out there and leave this part undone.

_Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man. -- Matthew 15:11_

When I awoke the next morning, I found that I had buried my face against his chest and had curled up around him like a young mammal. Barely conscious, I felt the physical manifestations of fear spread through my body; turmoil in my stomach and a chill in my limbs. I was not conscious of stirring, but I must have because _he_ ran his hand along my ear and said, "Spock? Are you awake?" At his words, I felt such a profound mixture of embarrassment, shame and grief that I did not even have the wherewithal to reply. Instead I rolled over so my back was to him, hid my face in my hands and drew my knees to my chest. Naturally this drew his attention more forcefully than anything I might have said.

He ventured to press his palm against my back. "Spock," he asked, "is everything all right?"

Here I was, naked, in bed with my commanding officer. It would have been easier to dismiss what had happened in the night as an unpleasant dream, but no. The reality was that I had had sex with my superior officer, at his insistence. How could I have given in to him? I had a list of very good reasons for not engaging in sexual intercourse and none of them had changed. My humiliation was raw and unbounded.

I loved him, yes. Dearly and deeply. This emotion had confused me at first, but had become in time the truest fact of my existence. But why did I do _this_? I wanted to purge myself, somehow, vomit--something.

"Are you okay?" he finally asks, with worry in his voice. "You're shaking."

"I'm sorry," I manage through a constricted throat. I shake my head, fighting myself and my body. I am not going to vomit. I am in control.

I do not know what he is thinking, but he withdraws, and pulls the bedclothes up so I am covered up to my neck again. For a long time he is still and I try, illogically, to sink unseen into the mattress. I have spent much of my life learning to be inconspicous; unfortunately, my techniques have never worked on him.

Finally he reaches for my cloth-covered shoulder and holds on gently. "Have I hurt you, Spock? Please talk to me."

My mouth is dry. What is there to say? My voice feels like gravel as I reply, "I imagine you must be ashamed of me, Captain."

"Ashamed?" he asks, shocked, "Why would I be ashamed of you?"

I want to cry. I feel so worthless. I wish he would leave so I could meditate and exert some measure of control before facing him. He is seeing me totally unguarded.

"Because you have seen me . . . I should not have given in. You have . . . you have my humiliation."

"Humiliation!" he declares, even more shocked. He reaches for one of my hands and pulls it from my face, entwining his fingers with my own. "What could possibly be humiliating about sex?"

"I am not like you, Jim. I cannot be the sort of romantic partner you require."

"Says who?"

"You know I am completely inexperienced and incompetent in this area."

"Come on, Spock, it was not that bad . . ."

"Jim, please. You have satisfied your curiosity about me. Kindly let me alone."

This is too much for him, evidently, as he suddenly turns me on my back and grabs my chin so I am forced to look straight at him.

"Listen to me, Spock: I was _not_ 'satisfying my curiosity.'" He rubs my cheek; it is pleasant. "I know it can be tough the first time--the first couple of times, really. Give it some time. There's no need to be embarrassed. You're not going to make me think any less of you by this, and I'm not going to let you fall. I'm serious about this, Spock. I'm going to be here and I'm not going anywhere."

It is exactly the wrong thing for him to say. I turn my head away at the vision of a lifetime of nights with him in my bed.

Many years ago I experimented with sexual activity with others, found it unsatisfactory, and decided to rely on myself from then on. Why had I forgotten this?

He spoons behind me, whispers in my exposed ear. "I thought you told me you wanted to be with me as long as we lived."

"Not like this!" I cry and curl into a ball, pulling the pillow over my head. It is a childish reaction, and I am acutely aware of this. To be caught in this visceral, emotional reaction is a humiliation beyond measure. Why won't he leave?

He caresses my biceps, then traces the lengths of my forearms with his powerful hands. Never to have privacy again, I think. Never to have complete integrity of my thoughts again. Despite myself, I feel the tears coming. All this, because I loved him?

I am sobbing now. He pulls me into his arms so that I am resting atop him, lays my head on his shoulder, and I do not resist. He strokes my shoulder, and my back, rubs my head, my ears and my neck. I not only allow it, but enjoy it, shamelessly. I lie limp in his arms as the sobs come further apart. I would do anything to have him touch me like this; I have no dignity where he is concerned.

He is very patient with me--I can be grateful for that. Finally the tears cease. My chest rises and falls heavily on top of his. He brushes my hair back and drops his hand softly at the nape of my neck. "I'm sorry," he says with regret. "I never meant to hurt you."

I find myself strangely calm, now that the emotional storm has passed. "It is not your fault, Jim. I knew better and I should not have agreed to it."

"But I _pushed_ you into it."

"I am an adult, Jim. Sooner, or later, it would not have made a difference."

"Spock . . ." he says, and there is such pain in his voice that I feel compelled to reassure him.

"Do not blame yourself, Jim. You could not have known."

"Spock, I . . . still don't understand. What upset you so much?"

I would have answered him, but I feel so curiously empty. "Simply an illogical, emotional reaction. I apologize for subjecting you to that display."

"You don't have to apologize for anything. You know that."

I know I should get up, show him the shower, dress myself and return to normal, but I cannot seem to rouse myself from the circle of his arms. Finally he makes as if to pull away and I reach out to hold him there. He relaxes again and hugs me to him. Tender feelings course through me and I shut my tear-swollen eyes. Again I feel embarrassed by these feelings and wish I could just disappear or sink away into nothingness. And then I feel something else: guilt. Guilt for my shame. Guilt for my cowardice. Guilt for hurting his feelings.

I had wanted to protect him from hurt feelings. I thought, if I was kind to him, I could ease his burdens. Now I am surely hurting him worse than if I had stopped at being his executive officer and sometimes-confidant and nothing more.

I feel sick inside. These conflicting emotions are shaking me up, making me cold and sick.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks, rubbing my shoulder idly. I nod. What can I say? There is nothing more I can ask of him. "Well then, time to rise and shine, First Officer." He starts to push me up. I jump off of him and out of the bed a little too quickly. He follows me. "Jeez, Spock. I'm not radioactive." My back is to him. For the sake of not appearing rude, I turn around. "You may use the shower first, sir." I mumble.

He looks at me strangely, as if he is trying to divine my thoughts from my facial expression, which I have attempted to will blank. It is the first time I have really looked at him all morning, and I can see the confusion written all over his face. "Okay," he says at length, and disappears into the refresher cubicle.

There are my clothes on the floor, where he dropped them. My boots, which I had removed myself while he joked about how he would fix my lack of enthusiasm. Then he aroused me and I . . . I penetrated him, and I did enjoy that. But it shames me as well. And I wonder that I could feel satisfaction and shame at the same act.

I do not feel shame at masturbation. I wonder if the difference between that and what we did last night is that he was witness to my loss of control, he saw me partake in an act I find disgusting . . . yes, disgusting. I have always been disgusted by men's vulgar lusts for women, and women's inexplicable lusts for men. So many times I have heard human males lie and lie to their partners--male or female--with the goal of penetrative copulation. They think only to take. I came to see that act as one of degradation. And for a being to desire a man was to desire one's own humiliation, and hence, also disgusting. I loathed anyone who approached me sexually.

When I was younger, I even attempted to convince a few women who I felt had admirable qualities that they ought to seek female partners instead of male. Their reactions were very strange and I learned to hold my tongue.

I had always held myself apart and above humankind. My self-imposed celibacy I wore proudly. I expected that when I did marry--if that ever occurred--it would be within the context of familial duty and thus I could not be personally faulted for it. Events did not run their course as I had expected, however. After my disbonding, I realized that I would have to seek a mate, but I soon rationalized that this pon farr, so late, which I had survived despite not mating, would be my last. This thought was very attractive and I latched onto it. In my hubris I imagined achieving what few human men and no Vulcan could achieve.

And when I fell in love with Jim, I told myself my love was platonic, pure. Even Petrarchan, because, after all, it was clear that I could not have him. This is what I told myself as my feelings intensified. I let the attraction become physical. I began to need him. And finally, last night, I gave him what he, as a human, had every right to expect.

And now I do not know if I have the right to call myself "Spock." I am not who I was. I am nothing, useless, worthless. They will know when they see me today. Somehow they always know. It would be easier to die now, so that they would always know me as untouchable . . .

He returns from the shower, looking fresh and pink. He finds me there, standing still as a statue, staring at nothing, lost in thought. His smile dissolves as he takes me in. Some part of me is aware of this, but the other part has panicked and has left my body.

"Spock, I'm so sorry. I had no idea it would do this to you." I look down. He is hurting and I am the cause. "I thought you would like it."

"I did, in a way," I answer softly. "I know you only wished to please me."

He comes up to me, unashamed of his nakedness or mine, and embraces me. He wants to protect me by holding me like that, but he does not know the darkness within my heart. "I want to make this up to you, any way I can," he tells me. "Please let me . . . it frightens me to see you like this. Would it help if I took you to sickbay? Would you like to talk to McCoy?"

"I do not know how he can help," I answer honestly.

"He cares about you, Spock. And he's not going to make a pass at you, so you can feel safe with him."

"Jim, I am not afraid of you . . ."

He separates us. "Spock, how about you get washed up, get dressed, and after breakfast you can go down to sickbay. You can take the morning off. You pulled a double shift yesterday, anyway."

"Yes, sir."

"That's not an order, just a suggestion."

"I shall take it nevertheless." Ordinarily I would do just about anything to avoid sickbay, or the doctor prying into my personal affairs, but today it appears as a welcome escape from the suicidal turn my thoughts have taken.

In 1927 seconds I am in sickbay.

Jim says a few words to McCoy, and then leads me back to the doctor's office. After 23 seconds, McCoy rejoins us there. His alacrity indicates that my control is still lacking--clearly he can see my distress.

"Would you like me to stay with you?" Jim asks me, and I shake my head dumbly and manage, "That will not be necessary, Captain."

He touches me on the shoulder, with a slight grip, not unlike the way he touches me before sending me without him into the unknown or dangerous. He leans over and whispers, "I'll see you later, Spock." Then, he raises his head and nods at the doctor. "Bones." The latter fixes him with an accusatory stare. So he has already guessed . . . The captain leaves.

It is silent but for our breathing in the locked room. I am seated, staring at my hands folded between my knees. "What seems to be the problem, Spock?" he asks me. Here is none of his usual ornery attitude, but rather, compassion. There is no logic in evasion. "I am experiencing an emotional imbalance."

"What brought it on?"

"Sexual activity, Doctor." My voice is perfectly bland.

"Jim?" he asks.

"Yes."

"I'll wring his neck for you, if you want. Would you like that?"

I am tempted to smile, but mindful of my reputation I only shake my head and say, "It is not his fault."

"Well, Spock, before he continue, would you like me to check your hormone levels? It could be doing a number on your brain chemistry."

I meet his eyes, finally. "Your tests may turn out negative, but I am also curious about the possible results."

"Okay, then." He ushers me out of his office and tells me to jump on a biobed while he gets his test equipment. Just then my most recent unwanted admirer crosses my path.

"Mr. Spock, you look awful," exclaims Nurse Chapel.

I drill her with my eyes, hoping to repel her. Stay away, I think, I have fucked the captain. I don't care about you. Stay away. Finally she withdraws and I am shocked by the crudity of my thoughts. I want to tell her, I am the captain's bitch now, so leave me alone. I am sick of her pointless devotion and wish to shock her with cruel words. I wish her to hate me. Hate from others is very comfortable and easy to handle.

McCoy returns, and fusses over me, takes a blood sample, waves his feinberger around.

"Hmm," he says at length.

"Have you found anything?" I ask, expecting a negative reply.

"Trace amounts of oxytocin, but not really anything else. You're physically fit and look the same as you did at your last physical." He purses his lips, thinking. "You haven't been sexually active in a long time, have you?" he asks.

"No," I answer.

"It's odd. I would have expected more evidence of a change."

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have not been sexually active with another person in a long time."

It takes him a second to catch my meaning. "Why, you sneaky Vulcan! I didn't even know you did!"

His reaction is perplexing. "Why not? It is a normal and hardly uncommon behavior."

"Yes, but I always thought you didn't. Well, never mind. I guess that explains the readings."

"Of course." I rise from the bed and lower my feet to the floor. "It would seem the problem is purely psychological."

"So it would," he says. "Come with me."

\--//--

Spock looked terribly upset when he came into my sickbay, and it didn't take a genius to see that Jim had a part in it, the way he was hovering around Spock with that guilty look in his eyes. As soon as I kicked him out, Spock started to regain some of his normal composure. Now I've got him back in my office for the second time and he looks almost normal. It's a relief to see that, let me tell you. Of course, Spock isn't very talkative at the best of times and I'm starting to worry if that blank expression means he's about to give me the kiss-off and ask to return to duty. As his pose shifts into one of deep cogitation, I became even more sure of it. Instead he addresses me formally. "Doctor, I am uncertain as to how I should broach the subject."

My stomach sinks queasily at this and I ball my fist in a sudden rage. God _damn_ Jim!

I get myself under control by reminding myself that Spock is my patient. I do not know if he finds my professional demeanor comforting, although I hope he does, but I do know that an emotional outburst on my part would upset him. "Spock," I say, "maybe you'd better start by giving me some idea as to what happened. I don't mean to pry," I add, anticipating his reluctance, "and I don't need to know all the details. Just give me a general sketch of what happened." He is silent, so I decide to prod. "I'm guessing this was Jim's idea?"

He sits up straight as if startled. "No. Yes. I'm not sure."

Well, that's obvious, I think.

"It's not as if I didn't want to . . . engage in sexual relations with him."

Inwardly, I curse myself for a fool. As usual he is defending Jim, without regard for his own needs. Somehow I need to appeal to the sensible part of him and not the part that is hopelessly in love with his captain.

"Spock, your ambivalence and your palpably negative reaction indicate to me, at least, that you were pressured into doing something you weren't ready for."

For that I get a stern glare from the first officer. Jesus, this conversation couldn't be going any better, could it, Len? Now I've stepped on his pride.

"I am an adult," he says. "I made a decision of my own free will."

"Really? You expect me to believe that you meditated on it, or whatever it is you do, and decided that tonight was the night and you were gonna--"

"No, Doctor."

"I didn't think so. Now here's a more likely scenario: Jim decided he was going to talk you into it."

"He did make the attempt," Spock concedes. Paydirt.

"Jim can be very persuasive when he wants something," I continue. Something odd in Spock's expression. "Good God, Spock, what did he _do_ to you?"

Spock has gotten very quiet. "Doctor, you must believe that he in no way intended to harm me."

"But he did, Spock, and you let him."

"I--"

"Listen to me. If somebody--even Jim--is trying to push you into doing something that makes you uncomfortable, you have to assert yourself."

"Doctor, it is not that simple," he says, cutting me off. He shakes his head slightly. "In truth, he was unable to persuade me verbally, so he resorted to physical persuasion." He raises an eyebrow. "And was successful. I did not stop him, Doctor, because I enjoyed the encounter. It was not until I awoke this morning that I experienced a detrimental emotional reaction."

I mean to tell him that's usually when people regret what they did the night before, but he plunges onwards.

"Perhaps I can explain. Essentially, what I experienced was an illogical, irrational reaction to the circumstances."

"How so?" I ask, intrigued. It looks as though he is going to tell me what the problem is--which certainly makes my job easier.

"As you may or may not be aware, Vulcan children reach reproductive maturity at 14 years of age."

"Really?" How he deadpans this sort of thing I will never know. "No, I didn't know that. I've never heard of a Vulcan being pregnant under the age of 25."

"Indeed not. That is because while a Vulcan girl of that age is capable of becoming pregnant, her body is still developing. A pregnancy, even if it does not come to term, would have devastating effects on her growth, health, and life expectancy. We consider the ideal age for a first pregnancy to be 35, although from a medical standpoint it is considered safe for a female to become pregnant beginning at approximately age 26."

"This is very interesting," I say earnestly, "but how does this relate to you?"

"In a moment, Doctor. For this reason, and because, since Surak, it has been considered detrimental to the development of proper control and good character for young people to engage in love-affairs, any sort of sexual contact between young men and young women is strictly discouraged. Although our schooling is coeducational, from the age of twelve male and female children are segregated in social situations. A young man would not be left alone in the company of a young woman and a young woman under no circumstances would be left alone in the company of males, other than immediate family members. However," Spock says, indicating that we are getting to the point of this discourse, "sexual experimentation at that age is expected. While society outwardly makes the claim that social sexual behavior is illogical except between bondmates, in fact same-sex relationships are encouraged at that age. You must understand then, Doctor, whence I draw my attitudes about sex."

"I'm not sure I understand. Did you participate in this kind of half-encouraged, half-discouraged homosexual activity?"

"I did not, Doctor. The other boys my age would have nothing to do with me, because of my . . . difference. I must further confess that I bear the human trait of finding that which is forbidden all the more attractive. Hence, when I matriculated at Starfleet Academy and was surrounded by females close to my age who bore no compunctions towards sexual congress with males, I am ashamed to admit that I indulged in acts of heterosexual intercourse simply because to do so was tantamount to a crime on Vulcan."

"So then what happened?" I don't want to break the spell--Spock never reveals himself like this.

"I soon terminated that behavior. I realized that my motivations were juvenile and incorrect, but more importantly I discovered that there were consequences to sex besides pregnancy. Namely, that I was inspiring emotions in my partners that I could not return. I had acted immorally and caused others suffering.

"It is also fair to say that I did not find sexual intercourse very pleasurable or fulfilling. I found greater pleasure in the pursuit of science, and I did not have to negotiate the treacherous intricacies of human social interaction in the laboratory. Over time, I came to accept that I would be alone and was even proud of the fact."

"I guess that's a natural psychological defense. I think I noticed that when I first met you. It's a vicious cycle: your attitude puts people off, so they avoid you, and you decide you don't care for them either, and that fuels the attitude that puts them off in the first place."

"That may be true," he says wearily, clearly in no mood to listen to my theories about his social coping skills.

"So what about T'Pring?" I blurt out.

He raises an eyebrow. "I simply assumed that, if the time ever came, my union with her would be consummated out of familial duty, and not through any fault of my own."

"What do you mean, 'fault'?"

He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. "Allow me to attempt to explain."

"You've been doin' a lot of explaining, Spock, and I'm not much closer to understanding than I was when you walked in here!"

A look of vexation crosses his face. "What, exactly, is unclear to you?"

"You gave me this whole explanation as to why Vulcans don't want teenagers to have sex, but you're an adult! And you said that you stopped being sexually active because you didn't like sex that much and you couldn't love your partners back, and yet you say you liked it last night and I know for a fact you have strong feelings for Jim, don't even bother trying to deny it, so what's the problem?!"

"I never said my reaction was rational," he says sharply.

I sigh heavily. Spock knows better than I do what makes him tick--if anyone knows--and all I can do is give him the best advice I can and hope he follows it.

"Spock, as far as I can tell, you've conditioned yourself into a way of thinking that allowed you to cope with rejection, and also possibly with your dissatisfaction with your own response to other people. You say you were proud of being alone, and I can believe that because you were an arrogant S.O.B. when I first met you." Uh-oh, watch your tongue, Len. "Sorry. What I mean to say is this: take it slow. Sexual intercourse stirs up a lot of powerful emotions, even for a Vulcan, and you need to give yourself time to acclimate yourself to the change.

"And for God's sake, whatever you do, wait until you're sure you're making the right decision before you proceed. Don't let him push you! I know you don't believe me, but you know your limits, whereas he only thinks he does. He's shooting in the dark, Spock. And he's a human male, so he's going to be impatient. Don't let him bowl you over! It's just going to mean heartbreak for both of you, I can feel it."

He acknowledges me reluctantly. "I thank you for the advice, Doctor," he says, and takes his leave. I never thought I'd see this side of him, Spock the martyr. He's completely convinced that he should discount and bury whatever he's feeling to please Jim. I've never understood how a person could go stay with someone who hurt them, but I think I'm beginning to understand now. Well, there's only one cure for this situation--to have that chat with Jim I've been anticipating since he came in this morning. I'll whip the tar out of him, by gum!

\--//--

I knew I was in for it bad when I finally got a moment to talk to McCoy. I knew it was going to be bad but it was worse. McCoy's got a god-damn caustic tongue that could burn the flesh off your bones, and he seared me pretty bad.

Bones . . . I guess I knew he had it in him, but I've never been quite on the receiving end of _that_ before. Maybe because all those other times he knew I was doing my job as captain, but this is a moral issue, a personal issue.

God damn it, can't he understand that it looked like the right thing to do at the time? God _damn_ it.

I'm not having a good day.

Spock showed up at 1200. He seemed pretty normal. I acted normal. That command training sure comes in handy. Especially because I can't look at him without thinking, "what have I done?"

I've always trusted my instincts, but they seem to have failed me. Spock, my friend, I thought I had you figured out.

I've got to find a way out of this. I've got to make this right. I will.

. . .

Computer, delete log entry.

\--//--

I went to his quarters after my shift ended, at twenty hundred hours. I did not inquire after his whereabouts; knowing his habits it was likely that he would be there.

He was happy to see me, judging by his facial expression. When I drew near he hung back, and did not touch me when I took a seat next to him.

He looked at me with knitted brows. "You came straight from the bridge."

"Affirmative."

"Weren't you going to meditate?"

"I did, Captain, this morning. It was most helpful."

"Ah, I see. Good. How are you feeling now?"

I lost my tongue at that moment. My emotions were too complex and subtle to describe verbally. He waited, but I could not answer him. Instead, I said, "You spoke to the doctor?"

He nodded. "Bones? Yeah. He really tore me a new one."

An odd feeling stabbed at my gut. It was unlike him to use such a crude expression, and it was then that I realized that he was deeply upset.

"He shouldn't have," I said inanely. "I told him you were not to blame, but he--"

"Spock . . ." he said wearily. He shook his head. "I acted, I made the decision to act, and worse, I didn't listen to you. If anyone deserves the blame, I do."

"Jim," I said and grabbed his arm and his attention at once. "Do not blame yourself. You made reasonable assumptions. I do not want to hurt you feelings. Not now, not then."

The way he looked at me, I knew I was holding on too hard, so I released him. He moved his hand to cover mine.

It was fortunate that I had restored my control so completely earlier in the day. I was able to quell my physical reactions before they could express themselves. Yet somehow he knew. I am sure of it.

During my meditation I had decided on a course of action. Right or wrong, I had resolved to carry it out. "Jim, I am willing to pursue a physical relationship with you," I said, and he stirred slightly at my words, "but it is not my intention to subject you to any further distress. I am committed to overcoming my emotional reaction, such as you witnessed this morning. I cannot say, however, how long that task will take me."

Jim squeezed my hand. "I'm willing to wait. As long as it takes."

His vow, spoken with determination, seemed to imbue me with confidence of my own.

"Waiting is not exactly what I had in mind," I told him. I was rewarded with a rather interesting physical reaction on his part.

"Well, Spock," he rejoined, sounding considerably less suave than usual, "I'm sure I can take anything you can dish out."

"You may live to regret those words," I told him.

"I sure hope not," he replied.

It was the perfect moment to act, but I was, quite honesty, afraid. It was tentatively that I drew closer to him, reached out to touch him and brought our faces close together. It would have been easier for both of us had he simply kissed me then, but he was constrained by his own good intentions. At last I closed the distance between us and pressed our lips together. I stayed in that position for 8.2 seconds, illogically both suppressing any physical reaction and feeling frustrated that a reaction was not in evidence. Then I released him.

I realize now that my control broke down at that point, but I was not aware of that. I was simply reacting; specifically, I was feeling utterly discouraged.

"I am no good at this," I told Jim. His smiling at my comment did nothing to improve my mood. "'Practice makes perfect,'" he said.

It is indicative of my mental state that I was capable of no clever retort. "You have a lifetime of practice. I have nothing," I said--an exaggeration, as well. "This will never work." I turned away from him, but I heard him shift as he reached for me, and then stopped short. I turned back.

"I never said you couldn't touch me. I would like it," I said.

He reached for me, hesitantly at first, until I was in the warm circle of his arms. Touching him was very pleasant--and arousing. I had certainly lost all pretense of control.

"Vulcans don't really kiss, do they?" Jim observed, with his head on my shoulder. I shook my head.

"What do Vulcans do?" he asked.

I found his hand and began to caress it, drawing the back of my joined fingers along the inside of his palm and along the digits. Sudden heat flashed through my hand and my breathing became heavier. I felt him mimicking my movements, even though he could not see, in our tight embrace, what our hands were doing. I felt my erection begin to push at my clothing.

He began to rub his own hardness against me, but then swiftly apologized. This would not do. I took him by the hand and led him to my bed. All my thoughts had become misty green. And then--

And then he stopped me.

We sit, catching our breath, seated on the bed and looking at each other.

I do not know why he has stopped me, but by his look of determination I am certain he has a strong reason. I do not speak but wait obediently. He still has me in his spell and my body, having learned new appetites last night, wants to bring this to completion.

"I think," Kirk says, "we're going about this all wrong."

"You seem to be eliciting the desired response," I say.

"No, no. I've obviously missed something. I've argued with you, and while you seemed ambivalent, I won the argument, so--"

"I seem to recall you declared victory," I say by way of correction, remembering our debates. They were highly illogical in nature, with matters of emotion taking precedence.

"Wanna try me?" he asks, brightening a bit at the memory--only a few days ago, when everything was simpler.

"That might be unwise," I say, and he looks away guiltily. Nevertheless, I find this encouraging. In my meditation this morning I resolved to overcome my illogic, but I have found myself faltering in my attempts to put that into action. My beloved is a brilliant problem-solver, and I can see him worrying our problem, looking for the right angle that will allow everything to fall into place.

"Aside from the intellectual level, there was the emotional level and the physical level. The physical level checks out. I thought the emotional level checked out."

I consider this. "Perhaps it still does."

"You were a wreck this morning."

"And yet I found your presence comforting. I find that . . . logical. My reaction was illogical."

"You've said that several times, but there must be a reason."

It comes more easily now that I have already explained it to the doctor, and since I have had time to consider these things in meditation. "I have had what you might term bad experiences. I furthermore absorbed a certain degree of cultural conditioning in a way that was damaging. In part I chose my path as a way of compensating for my failure to be a true Vulcan, but in part I must have merely been misled in my understanding of certain matters as a child, things my mother did not know to teach me and which my relationship with my father did not allow for."

I pause, seeing him nod, even though I have conveyed almost nothing but generalities. I steel myself for what I must say next. "I am damaged goods, Jim. That is why I did not want this."

"Don't talk like that," he says, with a sudden intensity, clapping a hand around my shoulder, shocking me. "I'm damaged goods too."

I am stunned into silence.

"Life isn't perfect," he says. "It isn't always easy and it isn't always fair. I know you've had a tough time of it. But don't say you're damaged goods. You don't even know what that means."

"I believe I do."

"No, you don't."

I feel a logical consternation at being twice contradicted. He does not explain himself. After a time, he lets go of my shoulder.

"Maybe I should ask you about Vulcan marriage practices," he says pensively.

These are not words I wish to hear. I have had quite enough of Vulcan marriage practices and Vulcan sexual morality. It seems I am not controlling my reaction well, judging by how he responds to me.

"We are going to bond telepathically, aren't we?"

I indicate the affirmative. We have already begun to bond, unaided by a healer. I think it likely that it will progress.

"If we bond telepathically then we'll be aware of each other's thoughts and emotions. Any difficulty that one of us experiences will be felt by the other."

"I believe, Jim, that that is already so." I wonder what thread his intuition is grasping at.

"Are you upset because we are not a legitimately bonded couple?"

I immediately deny it. I tell him further that he was right about the intellectual and emotional aspects, but even this broad concession does not mollify him.

"Aren't you ashamed of being in this," he indicates the two of us with his hand, "situation? You told me once that you were ashamed of feeling friendship for me. And here you are, coupling with a human."

"That would be racist." His words sting. I make both a poor Vulcan and a poor human, and before him I am completely exposed. "It was foolish of me," I say, more to myself than to him, "to believe that I could be any other than what I am."

"What would that be? Smart, cool, forthright, dependable, reasonable, compassionate, beautiful, and if I may say so, sexy?" His voice by the time he finishes is downright sultry.

I can only sigh in frustration.

"I'm missing something here," he says. "Did I leave off 'afraid'?"

"Yes." I answer him in a rush of breath, feeling relief that my illogical fear of change has been named by him at last.

He waits for me to explain, his patience at that moment much greater than mine.

"You have upset my world . . . to its very foundations." I find myself shy of saying his name, but 'Captain' would give offense and thus equally unacceptable. "Please pardon the illogical metaphor. I find it difficult to think clearly at present. I do fear. I fear the change. The transition into adulthood. The responsibility. I fear the choices I must make, not knowing the outcome.

"All my life I have followed orders. I have acted in a proscribed fashion, although it is true I have sometimes defied authority, when I thought there was no other choice. This was stressful. I prefer to serve, with uncompromised loyalty."

He has made to protest several times through this speech, but allows me to finish.

"I know that this fear is irrational. What is, is. I should have prepared myself. Instead, I chose to deny the symptoms of my coming pon farr. In so doing, I endangered the ship and everyone aboard. You know this."

"Yes . . . I know this." He finally gets up to pace. "I don't know what I can do or say to make it easier for you. Maybe nothing. But I can give you time, and if you feel that _bad_ about yourself, I can engage in a little good old-fashioned ego-boosting."

"Why should I be in need of ego-boosting? Such would assume an inaccurate self-assessment." I am not certain what he is proposing, but I am certain it will not work.

"Well, there's a little trick that works with human males. First you get him to do something and flatter him up and down for it, so he feels really important. Then you tell him that to pay him back, you need to give him a little _special_ attention."

My sexual arousal, which has never quite abated, rushes into full bloom. "What is the nature of this 'attention'?" I find myself asking.

He smiles broadly. "Usually a blowjob." His grin becomes even wider, if that is possible. "Always works for me."

My penis is throbbing and he has put me in this state, effortlessly. I am caught between my disquiet at my loss of control and my pleasure at finding my body responding to his command.

"Please," I say boldly, "do to me as you would like."

He sits down next to me and calmly touches my cheek. "I will," he says, "but don't I get a kiss first?"

I comply. This time I do feel some enjoyment, and I certain he does. We are both flushed.

"I'm gonna turn your insides out," he brags, and I part my legs for him.

He clumsily undoes the fastening and opens my pants. My tumescent organ swells prominently in my briefs, which he gingerly peels away. He tongues the tip of my penis and a jolt of sensation spikes through the base of my spine. With soft lips and tongue he is exploring my glans, sliding the slick membrane against the smooth insides of his mouth. The tip of his tongue finds the frenulum--it is like a static shock--physical sensation--sporadic jolts--too intense. I become aware that my breaths are ragged and heavy. I become aware that I _want_. Desperately, hungrily. Now.

He pulls off of me before the temptation to thrust into his skull becomes too great. He explores my erection from root to tip with his fingers and his lips. He applies wet suction with his mouth, the sound most undignified but the sensation most pleasant.

"Please," I rasp. "More." I am impatient. I want it now.

He responds by engulfing the head of my penis and sucking hard. His fist encircles the root. His tight fist moves, forestalling the need to jerk my hips and his mouth is bringing me higher and higher--

Orgasm seems almost anticlimactic. The tension has left me. He surprises me by lapping up my semen with a very satisfied smile. I do not know why it makes me want to sit up straighter, but he was right. It is flattering. He lays his head against my thigh.

I reach out my hand to touch him.

He must have his own needs, but he gives no sign as of yet. His touch his comforting. He will be my mate, and this is surely not a bad thing.

I let him up and he insists on taking care of himself, but not without a great deal of illogical vocalization directed towards me. I ask him if this 'ego-boosting' business is not a strain for him and he gleefully responds in the negative. I can only conclude that his success in wrapping me around his finger affords him satisfaction in compensatory measure. This is logical. I am, and ever shall be, Jim's.


End file.
